


Make the Yuletide Gay

by zjofierose



Series: Form Ficlets! [9]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bad Jokes, Christmas, First Time, Flirting, Holidays, Keith is in the marching band, M/M, Shiro is a football player, Snowed In, THERE’S ONLY ONE BED, Teasing, laughing during sex, shameless misuse of holiday music, terrible puns, they been watching each other for a while, way too much innuendo, zjo attempts humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-09-19 00:22:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20321989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zjofierose/pseuds/zjofierose
Summary: Shiro always posts on the rideshare board before he heads home for the holidays. This time his passenger is none other than the hot snare player he’s been checking out for months. But! Weather worsens and they’re going to have to get a hotel room for the night - oh no! Whatever shall they do to keep warm...





	Make the Yuletide Gay

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lazulila](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazulila/gifts).

> Happy Sheithiversary to me!! I’ve been picking at this dumb story since last Christmas, but I’m just gonna throw in the towel and post the damn thing and call it good enough. MANY thanks to @_lazulila for so many of the wonderful puns.

“Hey,” starts the message in Shiro’s campus email on Tuesday, “saw your post on the rideshare board. Need a lift in the same direction. Hoping to leave Friday around five. You still got space?”

Shiro dashes off a reply before he heads to a study session for his astronomy final. 

“Totes! You’re my only responder so far. Friday’s fine for me, but I probs won’t be done till more like six. That ok?”

He doesn’t get a reply until midday Wednesday, but it doesn’t really make a difference to him one way or another. He always makes sure to post his availability on the rideshare board whenever he’s going home for a weekend or a break because he knows it’s a privilege to have a car on campus, and the public transit to some of the more rural areas around Garrison University is pretty sparse. 

“Six is fine,” the reply says, “I can chip in for gas. Where should I meet you?”

Shiro doesn’t manage to get back to his rider until Thursday morning, but it’s because practice went so late on Thursday. He loves football, he really does, but it’s not easy being a dean’s list scholar and the star quarterback at the same time, especially not when finals week coincides with preparation for the post-season. The silver lining was they went late enough that the marching band was practicing at the same time, so Shiro got to spend the pauses between plays pursuing his favorite pastime: watching the lead snare. Specifically, the lead snare’s ass. He’d like to find out if it’s as tight as his drum, because Shiro thinks it really might be.

“My car’s in the Morris dorms parking lot, under the big spruce. Can I get your digits? That way if I’m running late I can text you, and you won’t have to stand out in the cold!”

Friday morning sees a final message, a simple nine-digit string of numbers that Shiro taps carefully into his phone. The email address is simply kkogane@garrison.edu, and the signature contains nothing more than an initial. Searching the email in the student directory produces nothing more illuminating than a blank grey square where the student picture should be, and that same uncompromising first initial “K.” He gives up and enters the phone contact the same way, and sets a picture of a big black dog he’d seen on campus last week as the photo, because why not. It’s a cute dog. 

-

It’s six forty-five by the time Shiro finally manages to hurry out to his car, dusk already well fallen. He’d texted K. Kogane, but hadn’t received a response, and sure enough, there’s a lone figure leaning against the spruce in the sulfurous glow of the street lamp. 

“Hey,” Shiro calls, jogging the last couple yards to his car, “Kogane?”

The guy turns and steps into the light, and  _ holy shit, it’s a Festivus miracle, _ Shiro thinks. The figure before him is in fact none other than the incredibly hot snare drum player that Shiro has spent much of this past football season ogling at half time. 

“Yeah,” Hot Snare Guy says, tossing his hair out of his face and sticking out a hand for Shiro to shake. He’s wearing a leather jacket and fingerless gloves, but Shiro can feel calluses on his fingers from the sticks as he takes the offered hand in his own. “I’m Keith.”

“Hey Keith,” Shiro says, giving his most charming smile and holding on for maybe slightly longer than socially dictated. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Takashi Shirogane.”

Keith smiles, the corner of his mouth pulling up even as his eyes twinkle. Shiro’s heart thuds in his chest. “I’m pretty sure all of campus knows who you are, QB.”

“Well,” Shiro ducks his head, “I wouldn’t want to assume.” He glances up. “Keith, huh? Your drum only has a K on it, I never knew what it was for.”

There’s a flash of pleased surprise on Keith’s face, quickly followed by narrow-eyed speculation. “You know my drum?” He asks.

“The drumline’s my favorite part of the marching band,” Shiro tells him, beaming. “I always watch the halftime show. And you’re the best player in it.”

Keith smiles again, a gleam in his eye, but then he shivers and Shiro jumps guiltily. “Sorry! We should probably get this show on the road, huh? You wanna toss your bag in the trunk?”

“Thanks.” 

Shiro pops the trunk, and Keith tosses a nondescript black duffle into the back with Shiro’s own military-grey backpack. He moves to the passenger side as Shiro unlocks the doors, and slides in with a familiarity that Shiro would love to see repeated. 

They settle in, seatbelts snapping and shoes shuffling against the mats underfoot. Shiro turns the car on and gets the heater going, flicking on his headlights and throwing it into reverse before turning to smile innocently at Keith.

“So,” he asks, “how do you feel about Christmas songs?”

—

“You know at least half these old Christmas songs are dirty, right?” Keith asks drily an hour down the road, his eyes bright in the glow of passing headlights. 

“What, you mean Eartha Kitt wasn’t a good girl all year?” Shiro gasps in mock horror and clutches at his non-existent pearls. “Next thing you’ll be telling me that Santa’s reindeer are  _ girls _ !”

“Shiro, I’m afraid I have some bad news for you,” Keith says, utterly deadpan, and Shiro can’t help but crack up. 

“I think my favorite was always Trim Your Tree,” Shiro says once he’s managed to finish snickering. “I admire a song that isn’t even trying to be coy.”

“I don’t think I know that one.” Keith sounds surprised. “How’s it go?”

“Oh, you  _ definitely _ do not want me to sing. Geese in dryers have a better sense of pitch than I do.”

“You realize that just makes me want to hear it more, right?” Keith’s grin is mischievous, and Shiro’s never been this close to it before. It makes him vulnerable.

“No,” Shiro says, but even he can hear the weakness in his tone. “Absolutely not.”

“But Shiro,” Keith says, letting his voice go soft and turning his face fully toward him as he lays a hand on Shiro’s thigh, and this, this is unfair, “please?”

“ _ God _ ,” Shiro shifts in his seat, checking the cruise control. It’s a long and rather empty stretch of road, but it’s started snowing in the last few miles, and he’s all too aware of what black ice can do. “Okay, but you only have yourself to blame,” he cautions, shaking a finger in Keith’s direction and taking a deep breath.

“Baby, I wanna trim your beautiful Christmas tree,” he warbles, and he can see Keith’s jaw drop beside him. There’s no helping it now, so he goes for broke, throwing as much 60’s twang into his rendition as he can manage. “Baby I’ll make you cheery, you’ll be calling me dearie, baby I’ll trim you a beautiful, beautiful Christmas tree.”

“No,” Keith whispers, clutching his face, but his eyes are twinkling, so Shiro sings louder. 

“I’m gonna bring along my hatchet, and my beautiful Christmas balls. I’ll sprinkle my snow up on your tree and hang my mistletoe on your wall.” Shiro chances a glance at Keith where he’s laughing helplessly, his cheeks flushed in the dim light. “Ain’t nobody in this whole round world who can trim your tree like me!” 

He sings it like a promise, giving it his best eyebrow wiggle, and everything inside him hopes that he’s reading this right, because Keith’s hand is still on the muscle of his thigh and he’s leaning in as he laughs. 

“God,  _ Shiro _ ,” Keith thunks his head against Shiro’s shoulder, and Shiro beams. 

“Need me to sing it again?” He asks, grinning.

“ _ No _ ,” Keith laughs, then frowns as Shiro steers them carefully through a momentary fishtail in the thickening snow on the road. “Hey, is this okay?”

Shiro sighs, the merriment dropping from his voice as he tightens his grip on the wheel. “Honestly? It’s not great. How far are we from your place?”

“Um,” Keith thinks for a sec. “Probably at least two more hours. We haven’t passed Smithfield yet, have we?”

Shiro shakes his head. “No, I think the last sign said it’s another five miles.”

“Yeah. About two hours at normal speeds, then.” Keith squints out the windshield at the falling white flakes shining in the headlights’ glare. “Think we’ll make it?”

The car skids again, and Shiro bites his lip. “Honestly? I think it’d probably be a good idea to get a hotel room in the next town we see.” He glances over at Keith for his reaction. “Is that okay with you?”

“Yeah,” Keith nods, “I can just call my folks when we get there. It’s fine.” A slight smile curls the corner of his mouth, and Shiro’s heart gives a traitorous thump. “Think they’ll have in-room hot chocolate?”

“I hope so,” Shiro says, smiling back, “I’ve got a real sweet tooth.”

Keith laughs and squeezes his thigh, making Shiro bite his lip again and for entirely different reasons. “You? You’re built like a goddamn sculpture.”

“How would you know?” Shiro teases, “you been looking?”

Keith’s grip slides incrementally higher even as he makes a show of batting his lashes coyly. “Maybe,” he says, and Shiro preens before turning his attention back to the road. 

It takes them another half hour to go the remaining five miles, and by the time they pull into the Super8 at the edge of town, Shiro’s worked up a sweat just trying to keep them on the road. He heaves a sigh of relief as they pull into the parking lot, and Keith pats his leg soothingly. “Want me to go get us signed in?”

“I’ll come,” Shiro says, unbuckling his belt, “they might need my license plate for parking or something.” Keith nods and opens his door, the blast of cold air a slap in the face.

Inside, a bored night clerk stares at them. “One room or two,” she asks, and pops her gum. 

“One,” Shiro says, and tips an eyebrow at Keith, “if that’s okay?”

Keith slips a hand into Shiro’s, linking their fingers and bumping his hip into Shiro’s. He grins. “Why wouldn’t it be okay, baby?” 

His tone is so, so sweet, and Shiro is so busy trying not to die on the spot that he misses the clerk’s next question. “I’m sorry,” he says, stroking his thumb over the back of Keith’s hand, “what was that?”

The clerk rolls her eyes. “I said, all we’ve got are king rooms; no doubles or queens.”

Keith slips Shiro’s hand into the back pocket of his sinfully tight jeans, and Shiro absolutely does not pass up the opportunity to grope the ass that has taunted him all fall. It’s just as firm and round as it looked, and he shifts his stance so his growing chub is less obvious. “That’s fine,” Keith tells the clerk, and she taps her keyboard, “big guy here takes up a lotta room anyway.” 

The clerk just stares at them. “Sign here,” she says, and shoves two keys across the counter to them. “There’s a kerosene heater under the bathroom sink in case the power goes out and two hot water bottles in the nightstands. Dial 0 if you have any questions.”

—

Keith pushes through the door first, tossing his bag to the far side of the large bed before flinging himself back on the mattress. He bounces, laughing, and Shiro wastes no time tossing his own bag and jacket on the floor while toeing off his shoes. 

“I take up a lot of room, huh,” he teases, moving to the end of the bed so that he can put his hands on his hips and smirk down at Keith where he’s making snow angels on the white comforter. 

“What can I say, you’re a big guy,” Keith grins, eyeing him up and down. “I’ve seen you in those spandex britches. You’re big all over.”

Shiro feels his cheeks flush at the frank appraisal. He can’t decide if he’s more delighted or retroactively embarrassed at the knowledge that Keith’s apparently been checking him out as much as he’s been watching Keith. He decides to just roll with it, and kneels up onto the bed while Keith’s legs and arms are spread wide, folding forward so that his fists land just above Keith’s shoulders, suspending his weight above him.

“Gotta be big to do what I do,” Shiro says nonchalantly, rolling his shoulders and bending his elbows to put his arms at their best display.

Keith’s eyes rove up one arm and down the other before returning to Shiro’s face. He licks his lips. “And what, exactly,” he asks, voice raspy even as he lies perfectly still, “do you do?”

“I could show you,” Shiro offers, lowering himself until he’s hovering in a modified push-up, Keith’s breath damp on his mouth, “if you’d like, that is.”

“ _ Fuck _ ,” Keith groans, fisting a hand in the front of Shiro’s white t-shirt, “yeah, come on, big guy. You wanna trim my tree?”

Shiro’s snort is interrupted by Keith’s mouth on his, and he quickly forgets the humor in favor of the heat. Keith’s lips are chapped but firm, and he’s not shy about slipping his tongue against Shiro’s, reaching up to wrap his wiry, muscled arms around Shiro’s shoulders. It’s everything Shiro had ever hoped it would be, endlessly watching Keith’s precise movements and capable hands, his effortless skill and his easy smile.

Shiro gets a hand behind Keith’s head, is weaving it into his hair and kissing him deeply, when there’s an ominous  _ clank _ and the room goes dark and silent. 

They both freeze, but it quickly becomes evident that it’s not just a momentary blip. Shiro lets himself drop to the bed with a sigh, ignoring the muffled protestations from beneath him. “Welp,” he says, “guess that’s it. Bedtime.”

Keith squirms beneath him, finally resorting to digging his fingers into Shiro’s ticklish ribs and making him jump, allowing Keith to roll out from under him.

“ _ Jesus _ , what do you eat, reindeer?” Keith’s grinning, though, what Shiro can see of him in the faint glow of the exit sign. 

Shiro shrugs. “Reindeer, gingerbread. The occasional unsuspecting elf.”

Keith snorts, making his way over to the bathroom. “I’m grabbing the heater. You wanna get those hot water bottles? We can fill them from the tap before the water in the heater cools off.”

“Oh, good idea.” Shiro fishes in first one nightstand and then the other, retrieving two rubber bottles that have seen better days. “You know,” he says, crowding up behind Keith as he passes into the bathroom, “the best way to head off hypothermia is to get naked with someone.”

“You’re just saying that to get me into bed,” Keith calls back from the room, his tone playful.

“What?” Shiro pours every ounce of mock hurt into his tone that he can manage. “I’m just looking out for your welfare, little drummer boy. Wouldn’t want you to lose any fingers on my watch.”

He finishes filling the bottles and steps out into the main area. Keith’s got the heater going, providing a warm glow to the room, and is busily stripping out of his shirt and jeans. Shiro catches his breath - Keith is all long lines, surprisingly wide shoulders tapering down to a tiny waist and narrow hips. His skin is pale in the dim light, gleaming with invitation. 

He turns and catches Shiro staring. “Well?” Keith tips his head in question, “you gonna just stand there and stare all night, or are you gonna come make sure I don’t get hypothermia?”

“Baby, it’s cold inside,” Shiro grins, and starts on his belt buckle as Keith groans and falls onto the bed, strings cut. 

Shiro pulls off his shirt, and preens at the heated look Keith throws at him. “See something you like?” He asks, unbuttoning his belt. He gets his jeans undone and down to his thighs when Keith bursts into laughter.

“Oh god, Shiro,  _ Rudolph boxers _ ? Really?”

Shiro sniffs, stepping out of his jeans and socks. “Keep laughing, Grinch, see if I come over there and roast your chestnuts.”

Keith rolls over and buries his face in the pillow, his shoulders shaking as Shiro crosses the room and leaps onto the bed, bouncing Keith high into the air with a startled shout. “Ho ho ho,” he says, yanking the covers free and sliding under them, pulling Keith up against him.

Keith’s bare skin against his own is a revelation, and Shiro shivers against him, pulling him up tight and bending to find his mouth. Keith kisses him back fervently, hands gripping at his jaw and his bicep, pressing a hard knee between Shiro’s thighs. Shiro slides a hand down Keith’s strong back and snaps the elastic of Keith’s boxers.

“Whaddya say, baby?” He grins down at Keith’s resigned face, “can I unwrap you like a present?”

Keith rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling, and his hand comes up to give Shiro’s nipple a wicked pinch. 

“Only if you promise to stuff my stocking good,” he says, and Shiro snorts in an entirely undignified manner.

“Oh, baby,” he promises, peeling Keith’s boxers down over his hips and slipping them off over his feet, “I’m gonna come down your chimney.”

Keith covers his face with his hands, shaking with laughter even as Shiro rolls him onto his back and slides down the bed. The heater has warmed the room substantially, so Shiro tosses the covers aside, dragging his big hands down Keith’s firm torso, admiring every dip and valley of his leanly muscled form. 

“Oh look,” Shiro says cheerfully, “I found the Yule log,” and promptly sucks Keith down to the root. Keith’s snicker turns abruptly into a moan, one hand clutching at the headboard while the other finds a home in Shiro’s hair. 

Shiro uses his hands to push Keith’s thighs up until his feet are flat on the bed, spreading Keith’s knees wide as he slides his mouth slowly up and down his shaft. Keith’s dick is like the rest of him, Shiro thinks; compact, lean, and utterly beautiful. 

“Let me guess,” Keith mutters from above him, his hips bucking restlessly against Shiro’s hands, “you’re the guy who gets drunk at the holiday party and does absolutely  _ obscene _ things to candy canes.”

Shiro snorts and nearly chokes, but saves himself just in time. He pulls off with a last lingering suck to the head, holding Keith’s gaze as he swirls his tongue and then licks his lips. “Come to the football party after break with me, and you can see for yourself,” he says, and Keith blinks down at him. 

Shiro’s not sure quite what possessed him to say that, and he feels progressively more awkward as the silence stretches on. He gathers himself up and stands, reaching down to catch Keith’s hips in his hands, pulling Keith down to the end of the bed.

“Ok,” Keith says, and Shiro almost doesn’t catch it. 

“Yeah?” Shiro asks, his voice traitorously hopeful. His hands are busily betraying him, stroking Keith gently from hip to ankle, cradling his fine bones and caressing the shape of his toned legs. 

“Well,” Keith smiles up at him, and it’s teasing, but it’s also so sweet, and Shiro’s heart feels like it grows three sizes at the look of it. “If you promise to make it worth my while.”

“Baby,” Shiro vows, “I will jingle your bells so good you’ll never forget it.”

Keith just shakes his head fondly, letting Shiro push his legs to the side. “Here,” he says, taking Shiro’s hand in his own and guiding it down to his hole. “Merry Christmas.”

Shiro frowns, then blinks in sudden comprehension. Keith is slick here, slick and warm and… “and a happy New Year,” Shiro murmurs fervently. “Someone was optimistic.”

“Hopeful,” Keith shrugs. “But I guess I must’ve been a very good boy to have Santa looking out for me like this.”

“Sweetheart,” Shiro lines himself up, one hand at the small of Keith’s back, the other pressing gently on his closed knees, “come sit on my lap and tell Santa what you want.”

“ _ God _ ,” Keith groans, and Shiro honestly can’t tell if it’s at the stretch or the joke. “Santa, I want to take a ride on your sleigh,” Keith says, but he starts snickering halfway through and can barely finish his sentence. Shiro slides home to the exquisite sensation of Keith’s laughter clenching his body around him.

“Mm,” Shiro hums, bracing his feet on the hotel carpet as he drags slowly back out before pushing firmly in. “C’mere baby, and let me deck your halls.” 

Keith snickers, but it turns into a damp gasp as Shiro presses in harder this time, the kerosene heater warm on his bare calf. Keith’s looking up at him now, face ruddy and smug, his hand coming to clutch at Shiro’s bare bicep. Shiro picks up the tempo, the sound of their skin meeting lost in the heaving of their breath. Keith reaches up for him and Shiro obliges, bending down to kiss him soundly even as he rocks into Keith’s body with growing intent. 

“Feel good?” He pulls away long enough to ask, and Keith nods frantically, one hand wrapping around the back of Shiro’s neck while the other clutches at a shoulder. 

“Lighting me up like,  _ fuck _ ,” Keith pants, “like a Christmas tree.”

Shiro giggles helplessly, burying his face in Keith’s neck as he comes hard. He maintains just enough presence of mind to reach down and pull Keith off with him, reveling in the press of Keith’s grip around him as he comes with a shuddering gasp. 

They come down slowly, breathing hard and damp with sweat, but eventually Shiro pulls out and stands up, flopping onto the bed beside Keith and snuggling up to his back. 

“Merry Christmas?” Shiro offers, nuzzling into the fine hairs at the back of Keith’s neck.

Keith fumbles around until he’s yanked the blankets up over them both, then pats absently at Shiro’s hip as he yawns. “And a Happy fuckin’ New Year,” he agrees.  
  



End file.
